


Arbitration

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Humor and Fluff, Implied Twincest, M/M, Spark Sex, Tactile Interfacing, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 14:29:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sideswipe's in a snit, Sunstreaker refuses to apologize, and Trailbreaker plays the peacemaker. All in all, business as usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arbitration

He's gotten used to it by now. His position as peacemaker in their triad has been established since day one.   
  
Sideswipe's in a snit, Sunstreaker refuses to apologize, and Trailbreaker is left in the middle of a chilly berth. Figuratively speaking.  
  
His Twins love each other very much. They would die for each other without hesitation. They are brothers and lovers and comrades in arms.   
  
That does not, however, stop Sideswipe and Sunstreaker from hating each other every once in awhile.   
  
Trailbreaker doesn't know what set off the hostilities this time. Sideswipe is the one offended but he's not talking. Sunstreaker refuses to swallow his pride and admit any guilt.   
  
Talking through their problems has never been a strong suit for either of them. They prefer the sheer physicality of slagging each other until the pain goes away. But in that path lies a trip to Ratchet, hours of shouting, brig-time, and Trailbreaker recharging in a cold berth for longer than is acceptable to him.   
  
So he has learned.   
  
Over the years, it has become necessary to discover that he is not above a little – perhaps even a lot – of manipulation. For a good cause, of course. When it comes to a choice between the three of them interfacing each other into a stupor, or himself sleeping between two sulking Lamborghinis giving each other the silent treatment, Trailbreaker will do anything to encourage the former.   
  
Thank Primus he's off-duty for the remainder of the night. Solving this little issue would be impossible without the time to plan and plot and tempt.   
  
He stops by Wheeljack's lab first, the scientist in possession of what Trailbreaker has lovingly termed 'stage one.'   
  
It is also known as the judicious application of high grade strong enough to strip paint. It is the only blend that is both palatable and actually has an effect on Sunstreaker and Sideswipe's higher performance engines.   
  
“Oh, dear,” Wheeljack says the very moment Trailbreaker bravely wanders into his lab through the open doorway. “You have that look again, Trailbreaker.”   
  
He tosses the engineer a wry grin, though he gives whatever Wheeljack is tinkering with a wide berth. “I'm afraid so. Do you have any to spare?”   
  
Wheeljack chuckles, winding wire around something long and cylindrical and giving it a calculating look. “I've learned to keep some in stock. Just don't tell Prowl.”   
  
“My lips are sealed.”   
  
With a loving pat to his invention, Wheeljack puts it down on the table and turns, rifling through stacks of unidentifiable stuff. “So what was it this time?”   
  
“Something petty I'm sure,” Trailbreaker replies with fond exasperation. “Sometimes, I think they do it on purpose to get me to spoil them.”   
  
All he can see of the engineer is a pair of pedes and a quivering spoiler, Wheeljack helm deep in a pile of mismated doodads. “As conniving as Sideswipe can be,” he says, words muffled, “I wouldn't put it past them.”   
  
He emerges with a rattle of discarded metal bits and manages to send his whole pile of gears sliding down in an endless avalanche. Wheeljack doesn't so much look at the new mess on his floor, wading back across the lab toward Trailbreaker.   
  
He's carrying a box, now, which he presents to Trailbreaker with great flourish. “Here you are,” he says, and shutters one optic in a wink. “Standard reparations apply.”   
  
Trailbreaker smiles, accepting the box. “I'll have it for you by the end of the week,” he promises.   
  
Or rather, Sunstreaker will.  
  
“At this rate, I'll have no room on my wall,” Wheeljack teases, moving around the table to return to his work. Trailbreaker wisely backs toward the door, forcefield or no. “But I'm not complaining. I consider myself lucky.”   
  
“They like you.”   
  
Wheeljack chuckles, picking up a vial of some kind and examining the liquid inside. “Like I said – lucky.”   
  
Trailbreaker pauses in the doorway, as far as he can get from Wheeljack's experiment and still be within the lab. “Thanks, Wheeljack.”   
  
One servo flops at him in dismissal. “Anytime. Try to keep the noise down tonight. Perceptor gets so embarrassed.” He adds another optic shutter to that remark.   
  
Trailbreaker laughs and shakes his helm, taking his leave. He tucks the box into his subspace, though it's a tight fit. Sometimes, Wheeljack's sense of humor tickles him mercilessly.   
  
On to stage two, the acquiring of a suitable mood.   
  
He seeks out Jazz. The third in command is, according to Teletraan, in the training room and when Trailbreaker enters, he immediately spots Jazz in the practice ring. The saboteur is performing several acrobatic feats in a row, flipping, twisting, and rolling across the ring with such flexibility that Trailbreaker feels momentarily jealous. His own bulky frame could never hope to duplicate even a tenth of that flexibility.   
  
“Hey, Breaker!”   
  
Despite having his back to the door, Jazz notices Trailbreaker right away. That he is also propped up in a handstand using only one hand makes it even more incredible. “Want to spar?”   
  
“No, thanks,” Trailbreaker says. “I like my aft where it is.”   
  
Jazz laughs and effortlessly pushes himself into a backflip, landing on his pedes with a barely audible tap on the ring floor. “Wimp.”   
  
“I prefer to think of it as a strategic retreat.” Trailbreaker finds a stack of gym pads and lowers himself down to them.   
  
“You tacticians and your strategy.” Jazz drops back, without any indication of his intentions, into a backbend, his frame arching rather erotically in the process. “Ya look like a mech on a mission,” he adds, performing another handstand. “Does it have anythin' to do with the public shouting match between Vain and Vainer?”   
  
Trailbreaker honestly doesn't know whether to laugh or sigh. He does a bit of both. “I'm starting to think I need hazard pay.”   
  
Jazz snorts. “Don't we all?” He pushes himself back upright with a showy flair of his arms before walking to the edge of the ring, leaning on the ropes. “Are we taking sides this time?” he asks, draping his arms over the ropes.   
  
“My intel is shaky. I don't dare.”   
  
“Hmm.” Jazz raps his fingers over a forearm panel. “We going sappy, provoking, or just nonchalant?”   
  
Trailbreaker considers it. Sappy would invoke guilt in both of them, which might only deepen Sideswipe's sulk. Provoking might elicit the wrong reaction, worsen the argument. Nonchalant might set the wrong mood, make the two believe that Trailbreaker doesn't care either way.   
  
Decisions, decisions.   
  
Then again...   
  
Trailbreaker grins, choice confirmed. “Sappy.”  
  
“You do like to live dangerously.” Jazz grins and rolls both helm and shoulders, obviously sifting through his rather impressive collection. “Then I think this album will do ya just fine.”   
  
His systems ping with a received data request. Trailbreaker approves the attachment and initiates the download, sampling the first few tracks before he nods in approval. Yes, these will do quite nicely.   
  
“As always, Jazz, you know just what I need.”   
  
“Ya flatter me,” Jazz replies with an over the top bow. “Careful or I might steal you away.”   
  
Trailbreaker hops down from the stack of gym mats, turning quickly to grab one before it slides to the floor. “Sideswipe would have something to say about that.”   
  
“And Sunstreaker?”   
  
“He doesn't bother with words.”   
  
Jazz bursts into laughter, nearly doubling over the ropes. Trailbreaker's own lips quirk upward in an amused grin.   
  
“Those two don't know how lucky they are,” Jazz says, once he finally regains control of himself.   
  
Embarrassment floods Trailbreaker's faceplate. “So you say. Thanks, Jazz.”   
  
Like Wheeljack, Jazz waves off the gratitude. “My pleasure,” he says, turning as though intending to start his acrobatic pattern all over again. Only he stops, throwing a look over his shoulder. “Though I got a gag in my subspace. Word is you might need it?”   
  
The heat deepens to a full on burn. This he blames entirely on Sideswipe. Mech couldn't keep quiet if his functioning depended on it. Not that Sunstreaker is any better.   
  
“No,” Trailbreaker says, and makes his way toward the door with enthusiasm only slightly less than what he had shown in Wheeljack's lab. “But thanks for the offer.”   
  
Jazz's laughter follows him into the hallway. Primus.   
  
He has only himself to blame. It was his decision to say yes to the Twins all those months and years ago. He choose to align himself with two troublemakers that he sometimes swears not only split a spark, but a processor, too.   
  
He still wouldn't have it any other way.   
  
Stage three takes him to the rec room, where Teletraan ensures him Tracks is located, having just ended his shift. Though generally a private mech, this is another instance where Trailbreaker has learned to go with the flow. It's not like the Autobots don't already know his business. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker's latest disagreement had not been subtle.   
  
Tracks is sharing a table with the usual suspects: Smokescreen, Hound, and Blaster. His back is to the door, however, so it is Blaster who is the first to spy Trailbreaker, though Hound lifts his cube in greeting.   
  
“Uh, oh,” Blaster says by way of greeting. “Looks like someone's in need of some back up.”  
  
Not for the first time does Trailbreaker wonder whether or not it's a good thing that his fellow Autobots need no explanation when they see him coming.   
  
“You would be right,” he admits, pausing at the table between Smokescreen and Tracks, who have their chairs the furthest apart.   
  
Tracks smirks behind his cube. “The usual then?”   
  
Trailbreaker rolls his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “You are the best,” he says because it never hurts to flatter Tracks. Sometimes, he offers a discount.   
  
“Of course I am.” Tracks waves one hand through the air. “And once again, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker will owe me.”   
  
Smokescreen laughs, though he doesn't look up from whatever datapad he's perusing. “You enjoy this, don't you?”   
  
“A little,” Tracks admits to table-wide chuckling.   
  
“Try a lot,” Hound teases.   
  
“You really have your work cut out for you,” Blaster says, staring pointedly at Trailbreaker. “You must have the patience of a saint.”   
  
“Patience has nothing to do with it,” Smokescreen says with a sly look. “There are other rewards.”   
  
Tracks twitches and Smokescreen yelps, like Tracks has kicked him under the table or something similar. “You would know,” Tracks implies.   
  
“Ah, but it was only a taste,” Smokescreen says with a waggle of his optic ridges and a note of fond regret in his tone.   
  
This... has kind of skewed off course. Trailbreaker shifts his weight, wondering if maybe he should skip stage three.  
  
Sunstreaker and Sideswipe's past is no secret to him, nor is their promiscuity. That they happily berth-hopped before settling for Trailbreaker is pretty much old news.   
  
Sometimes, it's just a little hard hearing it aloud.   
  
Hound effects a fair imitation of a cough into his palm. Smokescreen startles and has the grace to look embarrassed.   
  
“Sorry, Breaker,” he says, sinking low in his chair.   
  
Awkward fills the space between them.   
  
Tracks breaks the silence by fishing around in his subspace and withdrawing a tin of wax with a shiny seal. “This is a new blend,” he says, perhaps a touch too loudly. “Has a bit of a crystal luster to it. Lasts longer, too.”   
  
“Thanks,” Trailbreaker says, taking the tin.   
  
Tracks shrugs off the gratitude. “Well, you know, anything for the good of the order,” he says, and softens the tease with a genuine smile. “Good luck.”   
  
He's definitely going to need it.   
  
Trailbreaker excuses himself before the awkward atmosphere gets any heavier and turns away from the table. Nothing left but to actually implement his plans.   
  
The sound of pedesteps, though, makes him glance over his shoulder. Hound has gotten up from the table, following him out of the rec room.   
  
“Sorry about that,” his best friend says.   
  
Trailbreaker resets his audials. “Why are you apologizing?” he asks, honestly surprised. “It's not your fault.”   
  
Hound's good-natured spark is sometimes his own worst enemy. Though Prime still has him beat when it comes to complexes of guilt.   
  
“I'm sorry, anyway,” Hound says. “They just don't think sometimes.”   
  
Trailbreaker's agitation softens. “I know. I'm not unaware either, Hound. It's not like they haven't told me.” It would be a lie, however, to say he isn't ever bothered by it.   
  
Sometimes, he is. Sometimes, he hates the reminder that he's hardly Sunstreaker's usual type, or interesting enough to keep Sideswipe's attention. Somehow, he has, and Trailbreaker's still trying to figure that out.   
  
Hound draws up beside him, resting a comforting hand on his arm. “That's because they care about you,” he says with a soft pat. “Trust me. I've seen the way they look at you.”  
  
There isn't much to look at. Trailbreaker is more than aware of his own design. He's built for defense, to be solid and strong. He wasn't designed for grace or beauty. He's a hulking, solid mass that uses almost twice as much energon as anyone else, save maybe Skyfire, who's at least useful.   
  
He isn't often struck with these feelings of inadequacy. Trailbreaker is usually more confident in himself, his place in the Autobots, and his place in Sunstreaker and Sideswipe's berth. He knows good and well both Twins wouldn't be with him if they didn't want to be. And he'd only be exhausting his tactical processor if he tried to reason out why.  
  
“Thank you,” Trailbreaker says, energy field licking out and nudging playfully against his best friends. “I mean it.”   
  
“I know you do.” Hound all but beams. “So good luck. I hear Sideswipe is pretty miffed. You have your work cut out for you.”   
  
“Don't I know it.” Trailbreaker sighs. “See you later, Hound.”   
  
They go their separate ways, Trailbreaker to his own quarters and Hound back to the rec room. Right now, Trailbreaker is sharing with Bluestreak, but the gunner is on an extended patrol and won't be back until the end of the week. It's been asked why he doesn't share with the Twins and the short answer is: there simply isn't enough room on the Ark. No quarters big enough for all three of them to share one space.   
  
Half the time, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker can barely share space with each other for frag's sake. Best not to push it.   
  
Anyway, Trailbreaker has plenty of time to set his trap.   
  
He comms Sideswipe first and lures the red twin with the promise of high grade and a movie, the latter of which Trailbreaker already has since Bluestreak has collected an extensive array of titles and has given his roommate standing permission to use them.   
  
He baits Sunstreaker with the promise of a pampering wax and polish, like a siren's call for the vain mech. Not that Sunstreaker doesn't have reason to be.   
  
They both agree albeit with caveats. Sideswipe is not going to talk to Sunstreaker and vice versa. Nor do they want to look at or touch each other. This is nothing Trailbreaker did not expect.   
  
But Sideswipe's will is weak when it comes to sensual enticements. And Sunstreaker completely melts at the judicious application of wax. Trailbreaker is certain this will work.   
  
The trap has been laid so while Trailbreaker waits for his lovers to arrive, he busies himself by cleaning his quarters. Bluestreak is a rather neat mech so there's not much to do in that regard. He also puts on the music Jazz gave him, and sets out the wax and high grade. A small trill of excitement winds its way through his spark. A tactician does so love it when plans come together.   
  
Even better when they succeed, but he still has to see if his project bears fruit.   
  
Sunstreaker is the first to arrive, glancing warily around the room as though expecting Sideswipe to be hidden somewhere, perhaps under the berth.   
  
“He's not here yet,” Trailbreaker says in explanation and holds up a cube of sparkling, pale pink. “High grade?”   
  
“Sure.” Sunstreaker takes it, sniffing the contents suspiciously. “Wheeljack again?”   
  
Trailbreaker can't help but smile. They know him well. “Of course. He'll be expecting payment eventually.”   
  
“I'll keep that in mind.” Sunstreaker tips half the cube into his mouth, rolling the thick energon on his glossa. “This is good.”   
  
Amusement rises, but Trailbreaker works to keep it both from his energy field and his expression. “It usually is.” Next he holds up his recently acquired tin of wax. “Care to indulge?”   
  
Sunstreaker eyes the tiny tin with no small amount of suspicion. “I'm sensing a bribe.”   
  
This time, Trailbreaker does laugh, stepping closer to one of his lover's and luxuriating in the feel of Sunstreaker's energy field, open to him as it is to so few others. “I prefer to call it an incentive.”   
  
Sunstreaker looks at him over the top of his cube. “I didn't say I couldn't be bribed.”   
  
Ah, and there is the sense of humor, too, that Sunstreaker shows to seldom few. Affection for his golden lover swells within Trailbreaker. “Then allow me to give it a try.”   
  
Sunstreaker smirks, tossing back the rest of the high grade. “Do your worst.”   
  
Trailbreaker gestures to the berth, where Sunstreaker stretches across it with an indolent flair. He smirks up at Trailbreaker, arms above his head, lengthening the gaps in his plating and giving peeks at the circuitry and cables beneath.   
  
Trailbreaker is getting the impression that he's being seduced.   
  
He retrieves the necessary supplies and approaches Sunstreaker, unable to calm the soft revving of his engine. Sunstreaker is vain with good reason. The mech is gorgeous and knows it.   
  
Trailbreaker starts at the bottom, using one cloth to wipe away the dust, a different cloth to wipe away the stray specks of anything greasy, and then a third cloth for any dirt left over. A fourth cloth applies the wax and smooths it in. A fifth cloth sits to the side, in case of inadvertent wax overuse, which doesn't happen anymore now that Sunstreaker has trained him. And a sixth cloth adds the final touch of sheen to the golden paint.   
  
In the beginning, Trailbreaker had thought this routine unbearably tedious. How Sunstreaker does it every orn, sometimes twice, he couldn't understand.   
  
But the rewards, they make it all worthwhile.   
  
Trailbreaker works in silence, the music a nice counterpoint to the steady swiping of his cloths. Sunstreaker's optics have shuttered, his entire frame relaxing beneath Trailbreaker's hands, calm in this when he's usually a tense collection of cables otherwise. His energy field is a nice, serene thrum and Trailbreaker's own matches it note for note.   
  
Until his door opens with a loud thunk, Sideswipe announcing his presence. The bright grin on his faceplate instantly wipes away as he catches sight of Sunstreaker, immediately replaced by a scowl.   
  
“Oh,” Sideswipe says. “You're here, too.” He sounds surprised, though he's more than aware that Trailbreaker had invited Sunstreaker as well.   
  
The pleasant buzz begins to take on a sour note; Trailbreaker tries in vain to maintain it. “Please, don't fight,” he says. Not that either of them appear to hear him.   
  
“I'm not going to apologize,” Sunstreaker growls, pointedly turning his helm away from the door. He instantly tenses from helm to pede, ruining all of Trailbreaker's hard work.   
  
“Don't waste your energy because I'm not going to forgive you,” Sideswipe snaps, stepping fully inside so that the door can close behind him.   
  
Trailbreaker sighs and gestures toward the end table, where the decanter of energon waits. “I have some high grade for you, Sideswipe.”   
  
Sideswipe's sneer morphs into a dazzling smile, obviously reserved for Trailbreaker alone. “Thanks, Trails. You really know how to be a proper mate.”   
  
“Sideswipe,” Trailbreaker warns.   
  
“It was a compliment!” the red warrior insists, though it is with a knife-like grin that doesn't reassure Trailbreaker at all.   
  
Beneath Trailbreaker's hand, Sunstreaker practically vibrates with outrage. “And an insult!” he snarls.   
  
“Oh?” Sideswipe asks, clutching now a cube of the high grade. “Are you talking to me?”   
  
To forestall further snarky comebacks, Trailbreaker lightly pinches a wire in Sunstreaker's elbow joint.   
  
“Hey!”   
  
“Be nice,” Trailbreaker says, less an order and more a gentle request.   
  
Sunstreaker's fingers flex against the berth. “Why should I?” he grumbles.   
  
“Because I asked.”   
  
“Yeah, Sunny,” Sideswipe says as he flops onto the couch, a cube in each hand and a smug curve to his lipplates. “Have a spark.”   
  
Trailbreaker tosses the red twin a warning look, though Sideswipe can't see it. “You too, Sideswipe,” he says, putting a cautionary rumble in his vocals that both of him have learned to recognize.   
  
“He started it.” Sideswipe sulks by sinking lower in the couch, aft all but hanging over the edge until the barest tip of his helm finials are visible.  
  
Drawing from a well of patience that has served him well over the countless vorns, Trailbreaker counts backward from thirty. Silence is had, except for the noise of Sideswipe's television just under the soft music still playing. It's a start.   
  
Crisis averted, Trailbreaker returns to his previous task. There's a few spots on Sunstreaker's chassis that need to be touched up and it won't do to leave the job half-finished. For one, Sunstreaker would whine about it endlessly. For two, Trailbreaker is a mech who prides himself on completing his assignments.   
  
This one just happens to be more pleasurable than most.   
  
The cloth sweeps up and over yellow plating. He dips the thinnest edges between gaps, brushing the cables and webs beneath. He feels, more than sees, a shiver of delight flex across Sunstreaker's frame.   
  
Trailbreaker smiles to himself. Sunstreaker's energy field is already relaxing, shifting back to that pleased hum he had been building before Sideswipe's arrival. Even now, it is reaching out for Trailbreaker's own, entwining with his in a loop of relaxation and delight.  
  
“Good?” Trailbreaker asks.   
  
A purr rises from Sunstreaker's chassis. “Always,” he murmurs with a luxurious stretch that makes Trailbreaker more than a little hot under his armor.   
  
A scoff rises from the couch. “Nice to see who your favorite is,” Sideswipe mutters with an audibly sour tone.   
  
Trailbreaker frowns and Sunstreaker's energy field flattens once more, edged with aggravation.   
  
“There is but one of me,” Trailbreaker replies with forced patience. “And since the two of you refuse to get along, I can only give attention to one of you at a time.”  
  
Sideswipe hauls himself off the couch as though it's a great tragedy. “Then I'll just leave,” he says with the air of one greatly offended.   
  
Honestly, both of his lovers are drama queens to the extreme, if only for different reasons. Small wonder they never worked with Tracks. That amount of drama cannot possibly fit into the constraints of a relationship.   
  
Time to move into phase two.   
  
Disappointment laces Trailbreaker's words. “You don't want to watch a movie with me?” he asks with sadness that is both genuine and calculated. His tactical programming serves him ever so well.   
  
“You're obviously busy,” Sideswpe says with a dismissing wave of his hand.   
  
Trailbreaker's energy field reaches out, tasting the furthest edges of Sideswipe's. “Not anymore,” he says.   
  
Of course, it is now Sunstreaker's turn to be offended. “Fine,” he huffs, pushing himself up from the berth and sliding off the side. “I'll leave.”   
  
“Neither of you are leaving,” Trailbreaker says firmly, wrapping his hand around Sunstreaker's arm. He has no illusions about keeping the warrior if he doesn't want to be kept, but luckily Sunstreaker doesn't protest. “We'll all watch a movie. Together. That way no one has to talk.”   
  
Silence meets his declaration.   
  
“Agreed?” Trailbreaker asks again.   
  
It is almost amusing the way they reply in perfect unison with a sullen “fine.”   
  
Good. That much is settled.   
  
Trailbreaker nods his helm. “Sideswipe, you pick the movie.” And when Sunstreaker opens his mouth to protest, Trailbreaker's fingers stroke the insides of the yellow twin's wrist, where sensitive components are sure to elicit a reaction.   
  
Sunstreaker snaps his mouth shut.   
  
Sideswipe shoots his brother a smug look, but Trailbreaker lets that one slide. Besides, he has Sunstreaker distracted.   
  
He tugs Sunstreaker over to the couch, settling himself in the middle and Sunstreaker sliding in next to him. He is always deliberate in his movements, careful, to ensure that no inadvertent scratching, scraping, or scuffing resulted.   
  
“You let him get away with too much,” Sunstreaker grumbles, though he is careful to keep his vocals low.   
  
“One could argue I do the same for you,” Trailbreaker says with a grin, sliding an arm over Sunstreaker's shoulders.   
  
“We're good to go!” Sideswipe announces as he pops the tape into the console and throws himself onto the couch, instantly snuggling against Trailbreaker's free side and succeeding in jostling Sunstreaker, provoking a glare.   
  
The remote clicks, the lights darken, and Trailbreaker's carefully acquired music shuts off as well.   
  
From the moment the opening credits begin to roll, Trailbreaker rolls his optics and Sunstreaker scowls. Petty as always, Sideswipe. Of course he would choose one of the movies that his brother hates and deigns to tolerate when he is in a good mood, which he isn't at the moment.   
  
Attempting to forestall any further argument, Trailbreaker distracts Sunstreaker by teasing his fingers at Sunstreaker's shoulder, where gaps in armor give peeks to the delicate wiring beneath. The smugness in Sideswipe's energy field, however, is impossible to ignore. Cheeky mech that he is.   
  
For half the film, all is relatively peaceful. Trailbreaker is content to sit between his Twins, feel the warm, purring rumble of their engines, and watch the film. He hopes the peace will continue all the way through into recharge.   
  
He should have known better.   
  
Sunstreaker is the first to break the uneasy truce, no doubt inspired by his boredom with the chosen film. He leans in, dragging his hand over Trailbreaker's abdominal armor. He nuzzles his helm against Trailbreaker's neck cables, glossa flicking out in a wet tease.   
  
Trailbreaker twitches, losing all traces of interest in the action film, heat stirring in his circuits. His cooling fans click on with a telling whirr, audible even over the noise of explosions and gunfire.   
  
Sideswipe's helm turns toward them, optics narrowed in suspicion. Trailbreaker tries for an innocent smile, but Sunstreaker's nimble fingers slip into a narrow seam and stroke the cables beneath. Trailbreaker's engine gives a hard rev that vibrates the entirety of the couch, the arousal threading through his systems surging to a hard pulse in his energy field.   
  
“I thought we were watching a movie,” Sideswipe says, a hint of affront in his tone but something provocative in his optics.   
  
Sunstreaker presses hard against Trailbreaker, their plating pushing together in a sensuous slide that the yellow twin so rarely allows. “Movie's on, isn't it?” he purrs, and even to Trailbreaker's audials, it sounds like a challenge.   
  
This could quickly devolve into something disastrous.   
  
“You know I hate it, you can't honestly expect me to pay attention to it,” Sunstreaker continues and rolls his helm against Trailbreaker's shoulder, fingers sliding silkily across Trailbreaker's plating.   
  
His ventilations stutter. Somewhere, in there, are words. Words that would slide in between their bickering and get things back on track. But those words burn up in a burst of hot pleasure through his circuits.   
  
Trailbreaker moans.   
  
Sideswipe's optics narrow. “Fine,” he says, rising up on the couch, movie apparently forgotten. “We'll just see who comes out on top.”   
  
Sunstreaker smirks. Challenge accepted.   
  
In retrospect, there's really no other way things could have ended.   
  
Sideswipe's lips falls over Trailbreaker's, his glossa plunging eagerly into the tactician's mouth. Trailbreaker groans into the kiss, feeling the heat of Sideswipe's frame against his own, energy field already whirling with arousal, as though Sideswipe's been on the edge of it all night and restraining himself for reasons.   
  
Trailbreaker makes a startled noise and reaches for Sideswipe with his free hand, fingers sliding over the sleek red armor, feeling the crackles of energy fighting to emerge from beneath Sideswipe's plating. Less worried about his paint job, Sideswipe pushes against Trailbreaker hard, with a skritch of metal on metal, panting against Trailbreaker's mouth.   
  
Sunstreaker is not one to be outdone. Where Sideswipe is blunt force pleasure to the cortex, Sunstreaker applies himself with surgical precision – he nibbles the blaster mount on Trailbreaker's shoulder while his fingers trace Trailbreaker's seams, igniting bright bursts of pleasure through his sensor net.   
  
Sideswipe breaks off from the kiss and Trailbreaker trails after his departing lips like an idiot until he catches himself.   
  
“Hey, Sunny,” Sideswipe says, and he has that note in his tone, one Trailbreaker has learned to beware.   
  
“Not talking to you,” Sunstreaker retorts around a mouthful of Trailbreaker's shoulder.   
  
He tries, he really does, to get a word in edgewise, but while Trailbreaker is a tactician, the twins are far more skilled at working in tandem, even when they are on outs with each other.   
  
“Yeah, but, remember the idea I had last week?” Sideswipe says, barreling on as though Trailbreaker's not a hot, venting mess between them right now, circuits surging toward the searing bliss of overload. “We could try it now.”   
  
“What idea?” Trailbreaker forces out, vaguely concerned. Not that he believed they would ever hurt him, but Sideswipe does have the bad habit of going after pleasure like it's going out of style and doesn't think new kinks through.   
  
And then, discontent because Sunstreaker has stopped nibbling on his mount in favor of actually considering whatever idea Sideswipe's come up with this time.   
  
“Hm,” Sunstreaker says, and the slow curve of his lips is both arousing and disconcerting. There is, also, an element of triumph because, success, the brothers are talking to each other without an undercurrent of enmity. “Okay.”   
  
“Can I get an explanation here?” Trailbreaker demands, but then he has a Sideswipe crawling into his lap, all hot plating and exploring hands and bright optics. And then there's a Sunstreaker pressing against his back, revving a high-performance engine.   
  
Trailbreaker shudders, vents blown open wide.   
  
“We could talk about it,” Sideswipe says, his frame undulating nicely against Trailbreaker's chassis. “Or we could just show you.” His arms wind around Trailbreaker's neck as Sunstreaker's arms wind around his waist, hands interlocking.   
  
He's pressed between them, plating to plating, as close as they can possibly get. He can feel the thrumming of their engines, as they can no doubt feel the rumbling of his own.   
  
“... I think I can live with that,” Trailbreaker says, one arm hooking around Sideswipe, the other slipping between them to cover Sunstreaker's hands.   
  
“Good.” Sideswipe looks smug, his glossa flicking out over his lips. “Ready, Sunny?”  
  
“Better be glad Breaker's between us or I'd kick your aft. Don't call me that,” comes the annoyed response. “Yeah, I'm fraggin' ready.”   
  
Ah, brotherly love.   
  
Trailbreaker isn't sure what to expect. He feels their energy fields rise up, surround him on all sides. He reaches out with his own, three flavors of arousal feeding into the heat swamping the room.   
  
The first pulse of spark energy makes him jolt. Trailbreaker's own spark reacts, surging behind his chestplate. He groans, arm tightening around Sideswipe's chassis, but when the answering pulse of energy comes from behind him, an inkling of understanding begins to form, pleasure racing along his circuits.   
  
They're merging. Through him. Primus.   
  
Plating creaks as Sunstreaker's arms tighten. Sideswipe's spark flares again and this time, there's little delay as Sunstreaker's answers, the energy bouncing back and forth between them, echoing through Trailbreaker's spark along the way. He shudders, pleasure igniting every sensor and relay in his frame.   
  
He can't hardly describe it. It's like... like... one of those arcade games Spike likes to play. The one where the ball bounces around inside the console, hitting the wall and the paddles and the brackets, lights rising in the wake and making bright sounds. Yeah, exactly like that, the energy bouncing around in his spark chamber, spinning his spark into a frenzy of pleasure.   
  
“Primus,” Sideswipe moans, burying his face into Trailbreaker's neck cables, his ventilations hot and heated, his grip tightening. He's rocking against Trailbreaker's front now, to the same rhythm of his pulsing spark.   
  
Behind him, Sunstreaker makes a noise without words but betraying his own arousal. His arms are squeezing Trailbreaker to the same pulse of his spark, but his movements are more restrained, careful as always.   
  
The pleasure builds up within Trailbreaker, cooling fans spinning wildly but having little effect. Sideswipe gives another hard pulse, one that Sunstreaker returns with even more force, and Trailbreaker gasps. His entire frame bucks, charge spilling form his substructure and dancing across his plating. His spark flares and ecstasy dances over his circuits, and Trailbreaker overloads with a mighty shout he's going to blame on Sideswipe later, frame twitching and writhing between his twins.   
  
On the distant edge, he feels a burst of mischief from Sideswipe and a flash of satisfaction from Sunstreaker. They pulse their sparks in tandem, in an exact unison only split-sparks could manage, catapulting Trailbreaker into another overload before he can begin cycling down from the first. Pleasure scorches across his systems and Trailbreaker's spark flares out a wave of energy, hoping to drag his twins down with him before he is pulled into a systems reset. But what a way to go.   
  


o0o0o

  
By the time Trailbreaker swims back to consciousness, he feels like King of the Mountain. Though he is actually the one on the bottom, Sunstreaker draped across most of his chassis, still out cold, and Sideswipe cheekily lounging across the rest of him, while also snuggling with his twin.   
  
An armful of Lamborghinis is not an unwelcome sight in the least, no matter what time of day it is.   
  
Especially when one of them cracks open an optic, offering him a lazy grin. “You're getting predictable, you know,” Sideswipe murmurs, one chin propped on the palm of his hand.   
  
Trailbreaker smiles, resting his hand on Sideswipe's back, where his engine rumbles with a laziness to match his grin. “So are you.”   
  
Sideswipe offers a one-armed shrug. “So you _think_.” He winks an optic, a trick he learned from Sparkplug. “It does keep things interesting.”   
  
There is something there, in Sideswipe's words and tone, that hint to a past he and Sunstreaker never speak of. Neither does Trailbreaker ask. They will tell him when they are ready. He trusts them with his spark on and off the battlefield. It isn't that much harder to trust them in this.   
  
“You two will never lose my interest,” Trailbreaker says, keeping his tones quiet so as not to wake Sunstreaker. He tends to get... cranky. “I am, after all, built for the long haul.”   
  
The smile Sideswipe offers him in return is soft and genuine, nothing like what he offers the Autobots at large. “I know. And he knows, too. We just need reminders sometimes.”   
  
“As often as it takes,” Trailbreaker promises.   
  
He isn't the only insecure one, Trailbreaker understands this. Has understood from early on their relationship.   
  
He is neither blind nor deaf. He notices the looks of confusion fellow Autobots give. He hears the whispers.   
  
Sideswipe's and Sunstreaker's reputation is just as much a worry to them as it is to Trailbreaker, though for different reasons.   
  
How many times do they all three ask themselves the same question: why? And Trailbreaker's come to realize, sometimes that question just doesn't have an answer.   
  
“So,” Trailbreaker says, trailing his fingers down Sideswipe's back. “Want to tell me what caused the end of the world this time?”   
  
A huffing laugh escapes the red twin. “It's not important,” he murmurs, arching his spinal strut like an Earth feline. “Thanks.”   
  
Trailbreaker tilts his helm. “For what?”   
  
“For caring enough to try and fix things,” Sideswipe says softly, one hand drawing illegible doodles on Trailbreaker's chestplate. “No matter how stupid the cause might be.”  
  
Affection fills Trailbreaker's energy field and he lets it unfurl, washing over Sideswipe. “I'd be lying if I said I don't enjoy the aftermath.”  
  
Sideswipe chuckles. “Yeah, I'll bet you do.” He shakes his helm, amusement curling his lips. “Still--”  
  
“Shut the frag up.”   
  
It takes all of Trailbreaker's self-control not to burst into laughter at the muttered, sleepy command. He peeks down at Sunstreaker, the golden twin twitching a bit in his recharge but evidently aware enough to be disturbed by their conversation.   
  
“Tryin' to 'charge here,” Sunstreaker adds and his grip on Trailbreaker's side panel tightens.   
  
Sideswipe's shaking with restrained laughter. “Yes, dear,” he deadpans, giving Sunstreaker a patronizing pat to the helm though Trailbreaker doesn't fail to notice that said pat barely touches his twin.   
  
Sunstreaker might be only barely online, but he tends to attack first and identify the perpetrator later, especially when cranky. He doesn't stir at Sideswipe's bare touch, only ex-vents a soft burst of air and nuzzles closer to Trailbreaker. His energy field settles with the light buzz of a mech in a recharge.   
  
“Think that's our cue,” Sideswipe whispers. “Night, Breaker.”   
  
“Recharge well, Sideswipe.”   
  
No, Trailbreaker thinks, there's nothing so nice as an armful of Lamborghini as he slips into recharge, their frames warm and thrumming, the lightest pulses of their sparks tangible. The “why” doesn't seem relevant here and now and honestly, Trailbreaker just wants to keep it that way.   
  


***


End file.
